


A Million Years

by Fxckxxp



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Baristas, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Kaffebrenneriet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 08:50:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13360953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fxckxxp/pseuds/Fxckxxp
Summary: Isak and Even both have a crush on the cute regular at Kaffebrenneriet and totally, absolutely, unequivocally not on each other.





	A Million Years

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my beta [Mackenzie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EvensDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/EvensDramaticShenanigans). And to [LiliMane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LiliMane/pseuds/LiliMane) for helping me brainstorm and come up with virtually all the cute shit in this little one-shot. Love you both to pieces. ❤️

It’s 8:32 and the bell to the door of Kaffebrenneriet chimes, causing Isak’s heart rate to double and his head to snap back so fast it cracks a little.

He usually comes in between 8:00 and 9:00. Stress on _usually._ Sometimes it’s 7:45; Sometimes it’s 9:05; Sometimes he’ll even surprise Isak and get an afternoon coffee, too. (And it’s more of a treat for Isak, really, because he gets to see him twice.) But he always comes. Double macchiato with honey is the go-to. That or an iced chai latte with extra cinnamon. Every once in awhile he’ll throw a curveball—a strawberry smoothie. A large, black coffee. A peppermint hot chocolate.

And it’s 8:32 so it _could_ be him. Isak calls him the _Hot Regular._ Actually, everyone at Kaffebrenneriet calls him the _Hot Regular_ now too—just to make Isak’s cheeks red. They’ve even begun to nickname drinks after him, namely the double macchiato with honey. A.k.a., _The Hot Regular._ Isak had to bribe Magnus not to put it up on the chalkboard.

Not that it wouldn’t be the truth—both his outstanding good looks and Isak’s overt feelings. Isak practically melts every time he sees him—usually layered up in winter clothes with floppy brown hair under a beanie. Brown eyes wide with some sort of wonder Isak doesn’t know if he’ll ever have enough imagination to grasp. He’s cute as sin and Isak wants to take him home—simultaneously have movie marathons under a blanket fort and then take him to bed and mess up the sheets. He comes in every day—he’s the constant.

The variable is Even.

Tall and smug and stupid and _of course_ he’s working today—like a tall, lanky barrier turned puzzle Isak can’t seem to dodge or solve. It wouldn’t be such a problem if he wasn’t competition, either tricking Isak out of the way or blatantly throwing elbows to get to the counter first and take Hot Regular’s order. Make his coffee. Tell a joke and watch him laugh. Isak knows Even’s got a thing for him, too—constantly crafting his macchiatos to perfection, leaving little hearts on his receipts—but part of Isak thinks Even gets off on making his blood boil with the pissing-contest.

But it’s 8:32 and it isn’t him.

Isak almost laughs when Even bounces out of Eskild’s office at the bell, mouth agape and lengthy, awkward limbs making him look like a frenzied, startled giraffe. At least Isak’s not _that_ desperate; he would somewhat hold himself together. Not look like a complete idiot.

When Even realizes the same unfortunate circumstance as Isak, he collects himself, nods his head, and throws his thumb over his shoulder. “Eskild wants to talk to you,” he decides after a moment, looking first past Isak with a glint in his eye and then directly at him with a half-smile. There’s a condescending pat on the shoulder to top it off.

“Fine,” Isak grumbles, looking at the clock again. 8:35. He’s got time, but then again, Hot Regular could walk in at any moment, all Even’s for the taking. He reluctantly flings himself off the counter and takes a wide step towards the back, knocking once on Eskild’s door—which is slightly ajar—before poking his head in. “You wanted to see me?”

Eskild lowers his glasses with one finger but doesn’t look away from his computer screen, fingers clicking keys in lazy strokes. “News to me, angel.”

Isak lifts one eyebrow. When Eskild says nothing, he clears his throat to draw his attention. “Even said that—”

“Shoo!” Eskild finally looks at Isak, waving one hand dramatically. “I didn’t call you in here?”

The bell chimes again. Isak can feel the cold breeze of the open storefront door. Heat rises to his cheeks in frustrated realization, and he turns on a heel to see—yep—just as he suspected, Even taking Hot Regular’s order—propped up on one elbow at the counter, head cocked playfully to the side, taking his time with his low voice to talk about the snow outside. Something Even says causes him to giggle—pink cheeks from the cold rising up to show a wide, goofy grin. His hand covers his mouth and Isak notices he’s got dark blue nail polish on today. His heart warms a little at the sight, then hardens—Isak loves to see that smile but hates that Even caused it.

To make matters worse, when Even takes the order receipt and stands lazily from the counter to make Hot Regular’s drink, he winks at Isak, mouths something vaguely resembling _he’s cute, isn’t he?_ and walks off to make what Isak only assumes could be a double macchiato with honey.

Isak can’t even try and swindle his way into chatting with him, because there’s a line at the counter. The next customer is an old man, and not the silver fox type. 

Isak’s morning is ruined already. 

He’s having a hard time taking the order because Isak’s half focused on how bad this man’s breath smells and half focused on Even chatting up Hot Regular while he makes his macchiato—his laughter at Even’s lame jokes bittersweet. 

He orders a single shot of espresso.

“Where is it?” Even demands, appearing at Isak’s side like Isak knew he would be in just a second. 

He finishes entering the man’s order into the cash register, smiles to himself, and turns towards the espresso machines without so much as looking at Even. “Where’s what?” Isak sings, a self-righteous smile tugging at his lips as he lowers an espresso cup and places it under the spout, flicking the switch to start it.

“The honey,” Even grits, eyes darting over to Hot Regular, who is waiting adorably unaware at the pick-up counter with his phone out. Checking the news, maybe? Playing a game? Isak likes to daydream.

Even can try to trick him all he wants, but Isak’s not an idiot. The weight of the honey bottle sits comfortably heavy in his pocket because he made sure to snatch it from the counter before poking his head in Eskild’s office.

“Oh!” Isak feigns interest, turning to face him now, almost eye level. “The honey. Did you need that?”

Impatiently, Even rolls his eyes and taps his foot. “Yes,” he presses. “The honey. I need it.”

“Eskild didn’t call me into his office,” Isak ignores him, shrugging his shoulders and taking the espresso cup from the machine, setting it on a small plate with a spoon and two sugar packets. “Weird, right?” He hums with a higher than normal voice, keeping his mouth open around the last word—almost a little too dramatically to imitate disbelief. He lightly shoulder checks Even as he moves past him towards the pick-up counter, sliding the espresso shot to the elderly man standing right next to Hot Regular.

Isak can’t help but smile when he gets a good look at him. He’s so cute. His face is buried in a thick scarf, and the bright screen of his phone is casting a blue glow over his cheeks as he swipes around it with his pointer finger.

“Are you still waiting for your drink?” Isak asks him, catching his attention with a cute turn of the head.

He smiles warmly. “Uh, yeah, I had—”

“A double macchiato with honey?” Isak finishes his sentence, eyes narrowed like he already knows the answer with a slight, pursed lip smile.

Hot Regular nods, his grown out brown hair flopping delightfully over his ears. Isak can’t decide if he wants to tuck it behind them and give his temple a sweet kiss or bend him over and tug it just over the border of gently. Preferably both.

Isak can feel Even fuming behind him. It fuels him.

He shoots Hot Regular the finger gun, grabs the already started drink, and crouches down to open the cupboard beneath him. If Even wasn’t so daft, he’d know there was a spare bottle under the counter.

After a drizzle of honey and a lid on the to-go cup, Isak slides the drink over the counter towards him. The lingering smile and thanks he gets make his day. 

Either that, or Even’s face when he turns around to return his bitter gaze with something starkly victorious.

————

Almost worse than working with Even is working with the new guy, Magnus. He has no idea what he’s doing and once even blatantly admitted that he’s never even so much as drank a cup of coffee. He has no idea why Eskild hired him.

“One hot nut!”

Isak grits his teeth and turns to him at the cash register. “Stop _saying_ that,” he pleads while dramatically rolling his eyes. He starts making the hazelnut latte anyways, apparently also known as, per Magnus, a _hot nut._

At least Magnus got here during the swing shift so Isak could take Hot Regular’s order this morning in peace. Could chat him up without the embarrassment of Magnus looming behind his shoulder or the downright tenacity of Even trying to nudge his way into the conversation. Isak’s even optimistic enough that it went so well, Hot Regular might return for an afternoon visit.

So, all in all, his day isn’t _horrible._

But he might have spoken too soon, because Isak has to physically turn his body to roll his eyes unseen when Even comes waltzing out of the back room, tying his apron double around his waist and flipping his cap around backwards (which he stole from Isak, by the way—that’s Isak’s thing).

“You’re not supposed to work today.” Oops. Isak wanted to think that, not say it. But it slipped out anyways, a grimace to follow.

“Someone’s got to train Magnus,” Even points out, clocking in on the cash register. It’s insulting enough to be vaguely misread, but also a jab at Isak’s work ethic, or, well, knowledge. While he tries his hardest, there is no doubt that Even makes the best coffee around.

“Fine,” Isak grumbles.

“Did your boyfriend come in this morning?” Even taunts, his voice underlined with what Isak thinks is a hint of jealousy. 

He’s no stranger to it. There’s always that little voice in Isak’s head every morning he has the day off and Even doesn’t that makes him squirm with the uncertainty that Even is there, sweeping Hot Regular off his feet with his perfect macchiatos while Isak sleeps in.

But the fact that Even seems anxious about it presents Isak with a swell of confidence. “You know it,” he banters with a click of his tongue, eyes sweeping over to the clock—calculating just how much time he has left until he’s done with his shift and wondering if Hot Regular will make his second appearance.

Even takes notice. Smooths his hair under his hat and runs his tongue over his teeth. His desperation makes Isak chuckle under his breath.

And, speak of the devil, the bell to the door of Kaffebrenneriet chimes and in walks Hot Regular—his cheeks red and his hair windblown and his smile as bright as ever. Isak’s stunned for a minute, rooted to the spot in distant admiration until he sees Even rush for the counter.

He almost trips over himself trying to beat him there, his stupor causing him to lose a precious, very important second as he slides the last half-meter on the stone floor and bumps Even out of the way with his hip at the counter.

They’re practically screaming _hi!_ and _can I take your order?_ and _the usual?_ over each other on the way, colliding and tangling and tripping as they nudge and wrestle for the spot in front of the cash register.

Isak doesn’t mean to knock Even over, flat on his ass, he really doesn’t—but he can’t help the satisfied snort that escapes him when a flustered, red-faced, two seconds behind, _did that really just happen?_ Even is looking up at him from the corner of his eye and a half-smiling, open mouthed and wide-eyed brown haired cutie is looking at him across the counter.

Even gets up, winces slightly, and Isak almost feels bad enough to let him _at least_ make Hot Regular’s drink. And why not, Isak thinks, because now is as good of time as any for someone to start training Magnus.

So, like the generous, selfless, and not smug or jealous at all person Isak is, he graciously lets Even take Magnus over to the espresso machine so he doesn’t have to deal with either of them.

————

Isak’s alarm, set for 5:00 sharp, is lucky it’s still alive. After his fifth phone, Isak purchased a _real_ alarm clock after realizing he has a tendency to throw it across the room into the wall, smashing it into a million little pieces in his half-asleep frustration at, you know, waking up—life’s perpetual horror.

But this morning of all mornings, Isak has to open Kaffebrenneriet with Even, so his urge to throw it is almost too tempting. He settles for a crabby, forceful punch to shut it up and a light toss somewhere in the depths of his dirty laundry. 

Isak’s not a morning person, but he’s trying the best he can to savor this one before he has to deal with Even. Not even the thought of Hot Regular can make him smile. So he lolligags while he brushes his teeth. Takes an extra minute to pick out his socks. Actually cooks himself some eggs for breakfast. 

(Isak honestly can’t remember the last time he made himself breakfast. This is a bad sign.)

“Hey.”

Not even a _second_ of silence once Isak walks through the doors of Kaffebrenneriet. Will he ever _not_ roll his eyes when he hears Even’s voice? Especially this early in the morning.

“I just wanted to say sorry,” Even starts, securing the knot on his apron and clocking in at the cash register after Isak. He starts to make a latte for himself, which he’s not supposed to do, and Isak has to close his eyes to keep from rolling them again. “You know,” he grovels, “for the other day.”

His words strike an unusual and guilty chord somewhere in Isak’s gut, because technically, _Even_ is the one that fell and _Isak_ is the one who should be apologizing.

“Yeah,” Isak swallows, _I’m sorry, too_ on the tip of his tongue. But his pride makes him swallow it.

Luckily, instead of looking like a giant ass, Even seems rather disinterested in whatever Isak was about to say—his own apology out of the way like it was weighing heavy against his chest. Instead, he starts to tinker frustratedly with the radio that usually plays soft and ambient through the cafe.

“Hmm… p3 Isn’t coming through,” Even mumbles distractedly, giving the top of the radio on the counter a light bang with the side of his fist before looking up to the speakers in the ceiling, wondering if that did the trick.

It didn’t. He tries to change the station, but grimaces when something whiny, nasally, and something all too Halsey-esque blares through the speakers. He shuts it off immediately. “You know what,” he turns to Isak with what seems to be a rather genuine, adept smile, “I’ve got an idea.” He waggles his eyebrows, pulls his phone from his pocket, and hooks it up to the stereo.

Isak’s skeptical, mostly because he’s expecting some obnoxious, melodramatic hipster crap—acoustic guitar, depressing lyrics, the whole nine yards.

But Even spins around to face him—arms bent at his elbows with an open stance—and starts mouthing along to the words of Dr. Dre himself: _“Yo, man, it's a lot of brothers out there flakin' and perpetratin' but scared to kick reality.”_ He’s got an insinuating smirk, like he knows Isak knows this song.

And he does. And it’s one of his favorites. With his third eye roll of the morning, Isak crosses his arms reluctantly and follows along with Ice Cube’s comeback: _“Man, you've been doin' all this dope producing, but you ain't had a chance to show 'em what time it is.”_

Grinning, almost in triumph with a cute spin on his heel, Even responds. _“So what do you want me to do?”_

It’s a moment Isak will never forget—honestly one that he had never thought possible, or, for that matter, even wanted. But here he is, rapping along to N.W.A.’s _Express Yourself_ at 6:00 in the morning with Even.

And in this moment, he doesn’t hate him. Actually, a bizarre panic washes over Isak when the sudden urge to trip or curse or mentally spite Even doesn’t come. It’s just blank. Not the _fresh slate_ kind of blank, either, but the _do I really know this person?_ kind of blank. The kind that makes Isak take a step back and question everything, because this barrier of hate that has always clouded his judgement is suddenly lowered. He looks at Even. _Really_ looks at him. Notices that he indeed, does smile. That his voice, when not directed at Isak, is usually calm and full of a cantor that perfectly matches the aroma of the espresso around them; dark and rich and smooth. That ultimately, when he strips away his pretentious, pompous, hipster exterior, he might actually, kind of, sort of be... attractive.

Isak’s neurons are short circuiting at the thought. _His_ thought. It’s a fluke, right? He’s not… checking Even out or anything—as he dances terribly and forgets the words to the song—as he uses the honey bottle for a microphone and sashays circles around Isak, trying a little too hard not to get too into it. 

Like, that goes against everything Isak stands for. 

Oh, but he is. Eyeing Even’s long legs that he’s insulted. His golden waves tucked under that backwards hat Isak’s always been too proud to call him out on. His sharp jaw and blue eyes and smooth skin—

Isak has to stop himself because these thoughts lead right down a rabbit hole that ends with him thinking of Even in the shower.

The song’s fading before he knows it, and a slightly sweaty, out of breath, beaming Even is returning to reality just like Isak—Dre’s voice paling like they’re waking from a dream.

“I was thinking,” Even breaks the tension, serious now—almost as if the past four minutes and twenty-five seconds didn’t just happen.

Isak stays silent, his thoughts stewing into something indigestible.

“I’m done fighting,” Even admits, leaning back against the counter—his teeth working his bottom lip a little raw in uncertainty. “You know. Over that guy’s attention. I think we should like, hash it out. Be direct. Nothing will come of this if we don’t, you know, just ask him—besides us not getting along any more than we already do.”

Isak lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding—tentatively, though, because he doesn’t want to seem nervous. “Okay,” he breathes, eyes narrowed, “how do we do it fairly?”

“Well, we don’t even know his name,” Even laughs, looking down and fidgeting with the strings of his apron. “I think maybe we just be civil about it. Make this competition friendly, if you will. So whoever gets his name first…” he trails, his confidence building with a straightened stance, “gets to ask him out.”

Isak thinks, still a little skeptical. “Alright,” he agrees, “but doesn’t that just come down to who gets to take his order first?”

Laughing—almost a little too loudly— Even seems almost fond. “Fine,” he agrees, calming himself. “That’s the rule. You can’t just, ask out right. You have to be clever about it.”

Oh fuck.

“I’m the master at being clever,” Isak challenges, his fake confidence not even fooling himself.

But he’s not. Not at all.

————

Isak takes the cash from Hot Regular, opens the register, and lies. “We’re actually short on coins,” he trails, rather unconvincingly. “Do you have a card you can pay with, maybe?”

Even snickers from the corner, and Isak knows he can see right through him—mainly because he got this idea from Even’s last failed attempt. Admittedly with a better excuse.

All Isak needs is to see Hot Regular's name on his card. Then he wins. It’s better than his last dozen or so efforts, each leading to a dead end. There was the time he blurted _my name’s Isak,_ earning a confused glance down to his nametag when what he was hoping for was Hot Regular to introduce himself back. That one was probably the worst.

Even has no right to judge him, though. Yesterday he told Hot Regular they were trying to be more like Starbucks and write customer’s names on cups. To Isak’s delight, when questioned, Hot Regular responded with _Vladimir Putin._

“Shut up,” Isak mumbles to Even, passing him with a little smile after his failed attempt. In all honesty, he’s more relieved nothing came of it. That he hasn’t won, and neither has Even. That they’re allowed to walk these weird circles around each other—simultaneously competitive yet almost flirtatious with their intentions.

Ever since the _Express Yourself_ incident, Isak’s felt a pang of relief every time he used to feel anger around Even. It’s nice, whatever this is. 

But whatever this is, Isak’s afraid it’s fragile. Afraid this thing between them is will shatter when someone finally succeeds.

————

_What’s the problem?_

That’s the question Isak has been asking himself all morning. Because what _is_ the problem? There should _be_ no problem. If Isak were to step outside of himself—look down on the scene—it’s a perfect morning. Not a problem anywhere in sight. 

They’ve got over 150 kroner in the tip jar before 8:00 a.m., Magnus and Even both have the day off, and Isak’s manning Kaffebrenneriet with his favorite co-worker in crime, Eva.

Hot Regular’s even sitting by the window sipping a strawberry smoothie (a curveball day, Isak notices) and although Isak’s failed yet again to get his name (maybe on purpose), he’s a nice sight.

The line is long but it keeps his mind busy and the morning flies by. By the time he’s had a chance to check the time, there’s only an hour or so left of his shift. He finishes making a large black coffee and a small hot chocolate for a little girl and her mother—sliding them across the counter and nodding with a smile in their direction before turning around.

“So,” Eva starts, something mischievous sparkling in her eye as she wipes down the counter after the morning rush. “I heard about you and Even’s, uh, bet.”

Isak’s about to roll his eyes—to tell Eva to stay out of it—his defence mechanism on red alert after the mixture of animosity and affection that’s been concocting something strange in his brain this last week. 

“I’m getting tired of it,” Isak admits—and it’s true. He glances over to Hot Regular in the corner, the better half of his smoothie gone as he types deliberately on his laptop. “But I can’t just let him win,” he continues, turning back to Eva. “It’s hard when my motivation now isn’t really the end result, it’s just… not losing.”

Eva just raises her eyebrows. Tips her chin up slightly—the gentle dart of her eyes a centimeter to the right gives Isak the impression someone is at the counter. Her aloofness about it makes his stomach turn at the thought of who that someone might be.

It’s Even. Isak almost doesn’t recognize him without his uniform; and genuinely, his first impressions after he’s turned around to see him do nothing to ease that strange pang in his heart—the one confusingly trying to struggle free from the confines of resentment—that makes him go a little short of breath. A little weak in the knees. A little lost for words. Everything from his swept up hair down to his battered adidas scream _I work at a coffee shop_ but also _just my type._ But it’s true. Even looks fucking good—standing at the counter like he knows he does. Like he knows Isak knows he does.

Even notices Hot Regular in the corner, his expression turning almost scared.

“Did you…” Even trails, narrowing his eyes with a half smile that doesn’t convince Isak, “win?”

Sighing, Isak doesn’t know if he’s more embarrassed to admit another failure or to be so on edge for the simple reason that they’re all in the same room—that the tension is high because he’s nervous. “No,” he confesses.

Isak can’t tell if the gleam in Even’s eye is relief or courage, but either way, Even lets out a breath through puffed cheeks. Slides his hand through the gold waves on the top of his head. Isak wishes he wouldn’t stretch himself out like that—rock on his heels and bite the corners of his mouth. He’s almost prettier to look at than Hot Regular, and that’s a thought that scares Isak.

“So what’ll it be,” Isak hurries him, a little annoyed he has to take his order. He makes it pretty painless, although he does order a double macchiato with honey and Isak thinks it’s simply to set him into panic mode. Does he just want to see if the way Isak makes it really is worse than the way he does? Does he want to remind Isak of the fact he still hasn’t won the bet? Or worse? Walk it on over to Hot Regular in the corner as the perfect ice breaker?

The apprehension is either written all over Isak’s face or Even can read his mind—maybe it’s because Isak’s glanced over to Hot Regular the better part of ten times while making Even his drink.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Even points out—catching Isak’s eye.

Isak slides him his drink warily.

Carefully, Even takes the lid off the to-go cup, reaches around behind the counter for the honey bottle, and squeezes an extra drizzle on top. Just to be an asshole, apparently. 

“You never put enough in,” Even mentions nonchalantly, the quick shrug of his shoulders trying to convey he means no harm.

Yet Isak can’t help but take it personally.

“It’s your shift,” Even reminds him, snapping the lid back on and taking a slow, careful drink—eyeing Isak over the brim and smiling. 

There’s a little foam left on his lip and Isak’s first thought is to lick it off.

“So it wouldn’t be fair.”

It’s not like there are any rules to this—just the one. _You can’t ask him straight up._ So Even’s stubbornness to so blatantly not put himself between Isak and Hot Regular right now makes him skeptical. Because usually Even would do anything to give him a tough time.

Before Isak can argue, in one sudden second, there’s a clang, tears, and hot chocolate all over the floor of the lobby.

And also Even, grabbing paper towels from behind the counter and rushing towards the mess—first helping the little girl to her feet as she looks up to her mom with teary eyes and an empty cup that was once full of hot chocolate.

“Don’t worry,” Even nods with a carefree, squinty smile—waving Isak off, who has just rounded the corner to the counter to help. “I got it.”

“But it’s my shift,” Isak argues, using Even’s words. He’s not sure if this is some sort of twisted contest or if Even is being genuine. 

And honestly, maybe he’s scared Even _is_ genuine—because now, ever since the barrier Isak’s been holding against him has been lowered, it’s getting harder and harder to hate him.

————

Even wins.

It all happens in slow motion, yet it’s over before Isak can pull coherent sentences back together to stop him.

“You know,” Even hesitates, inflection chorded through his voice like he’s almost asking himself his own question while taking Hot Regular’s order at the counter. “We do a weekly drawing for a free drink,” he hints, tapping the rim of an empty coffee can with a handful of business cards in it to his right—which was totally not there yesterday.

Hot Regular smiles, and there’s _no way_ someone their age would have a business card (Isak surely doesn’t have one—what would it even say? Professional Bullshitter? Professional Gay Best Friend? Rap God? C’mon, his highest qualification is video game related). But sure enough, Hot Regular is reaching into his pocket and making Isak’s heart sink.

Temptation is practically tangible as it rises mercilessly from the can while Even slowly, probably just to torture Isak, makes a double macchiato with honey and chats up soon-to-be-named Hot Regular—his unabashed smile absolutely victorious.

“Well,” Even remarks, so much arrogance in just one word. He traces his finger around the rim of the coffee can before lifting it and giving it one good shake. “Mystery man awaits,” he brags, flitting through the cards before picking out the familiar one.

Isak both loaths and loves Even for being so clever—yet despises him a little more with every second he’s forced to stand here and watch his success.

“Mikael Øverlie Boukhal,” Even reads long, slow, and impressed—his tongue dramatically heavy on every syllable. “Even his name is sexy,” he sasses, a click of his tongue. “And would you look at that—he’s a photographer—”

“Yeah, whatever,” Isak cuts him off. “You won, I get it—you get to ask him out.”

“Damn right I do,” Even snips, his joy turning Isak’s heart green with both sickness and envy. “You jealous?”

Isak gulps. Yes. Yes he is. He is very jealous.

He’s also totally fucked, because when he closes his eyes and pictures the two of them sharing a coffee, walking hand in hand, texting sweet nothings to each other into the morning hours… it’s not Even Isak wants to trade places with. 

It’s Mikael.

————

Isak wakes up groggy. Unmotivated. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, looking at the shower in the bathroom and deciding _nah._

When he trudges into work (a little late), Even, on the other hand, is all smiles. The sun is shining right out of his fucking ass and Isak _knows_ he’s in for it— _knows_ Even is going to hold his win over Isak’s head all. Morning. Long. And then possibly rub it in his face all afternoon, too, when he’s got a new phone number in his contacts and a date scheduled for Friday night.

At 8:07 when the bell to the door of Kaffebrenneriet chimes to let in none other than Mikael himself, Isak considers ducking into the bathroom to spare himself the shame. But he decides against it—too proud to give Even any more fuel to his fire.

So instead, Isak just rolls his eyes in defeat and nods sharply to the counter where Mikael is waiting—bundled up adorably as always—as if to give Even the go-ahead. He can’t take another second of this.

Isak hears him order his regular drink. Hears Even typing it in painstakingly slow on the register. Hears his deep voice ask _what are you doing on Friday?_ and then, after a slightly startled yet charmingly and pleasantly confused _nothing,_ an invitation to some hipster bullshit. Drinks at some 20’s themed bar and a movie Isak’s never heard of before.

But here’s where it gets interesting.

Isak’s prepared himself to be disappointed—both at the situation in general and at Mikael’s enthusiasm for Even’s antics. 

But Mikael’s not enthused. He’s not delighted. If anything, he’s puzzled.

Even catches on to it, too—Isak can hear his breath hitch. Can see his grip tighten on the counter. Can practically feel his heart beat at the speed of sound—or wait—maybe that’s his own.

Mikael narrows his eyes. Smiles a little, just the corner of his mouth turning up to show a sharp canine. He darts his eyes between the two of them, and at this point Isak has stopped pretending like he’s not paying attention. He knows something they don’t—at least, not yet.

“I thought you two were together,” Mikael teases.

Isak doesn’t know if he’s serious or if he’s letting Even down lightly, but it stabs his heart gently and then at full force when Even can’t help but break out into a roar of laughter. The kind that starts with maybe some spit flying before he’s doubled over and holding his side in pain.

Because Isak knows what he’s thinking: _not in a million years._

Honest to god, no matter what—not in a million years.

————

Isak learns from Eva that after some rather unsuccessful attempts at flirting, Even did manage to get Mikael to agree on a date during their shift.

“You should have seen him,” Eva laughs, carefully crafting a beautiful lotus leaf on the top of a latte. “He was a total trainwreck.”

“Well,” Isak sighs, “he got what he wanted. I’m just not excited to never hear the end of it.”

“I don’t know,” Eva eyes him, skeptical. “I think that’s why Even asked him again when you weren’t here. He didn’t want to do it in front of you.”

“That’s very unlike him,” Isak grumbles. “I can’t say I’d have been so polite.”

Giggling, Eva pats Isak twice on the head. “You’re so oblivious.”

————

Even keeps looking at the clock.

The one on the cash register. The one on the microwave. The one ticking away above the door to the back room and the one on the wall in the lobby. He darts his eyes from one to the other as if it’s going to change anything, and his restlessness is making Isak’s insides squirm in defiance; yet there’s a little part of him squirming, too, for every minute he has left with Even before he’s off and into the arms of Mikael, probably never to return once he’s comfortably there.

Isak’s happy for him, kind of. He really is. Mikael is cute. Mikael is nice. Mikael probably likes the same stupid shit Even likes—they’re probably perfect for each other.

Once Even clocks out, probably at the exact second he’s allowed to, he’ll be off to his date and then Isak will know for sure—most likely because he’ll never hear the end of it.

They’re closing now, and, if possible, Even becomes even more attuned to watching the clock as their last hour dwindles away. It’s been a stupid day. A rude customer complained to Eskild about something that was out of Isak’s control, a kid threw up in the bathroom, and Isak’s closing shift overlapped with Magnus’s by three hours—and honestly—it was three hours too many. 

Not so admittedly, none of that would be so terrible if it weren’t for the fact that since losing the bet, Isak and Even haven’t constantly been at each other’s throats. It’s been, dare Isak say, rather peaceful between them. That barrier of unfiltered rage that always bubbles up inside Isak when he so much as glances at Even hasn’t been there. His guard is down.

And it’s dangerous, because when Isak’s guard is down around Even, all of the good parts about him start to filter through—start to prick the skin of Isak’s qualms about him. It tickles. It feels nice. Isak doesn’t like that it does.

The stupidest part is that watching Even clock out will be the worst of it.

He’s dawdling by the cash register now, waiting to do so as the last minute slowly ticks by in their awkward silence. In a minute, Isak will follow Even—will clock out after him. Will follow him out the door. Will lock it behind them both. Will watch him head for the tram while Isak walks home.

But a lot happens in this minute. It’s the turning point. 

In this minute, a customer walks in. In this minute, they order something simple. A hot tea with milk and honey.

In this minute, Isak elbows Even out of the way of the cash register and completes the order, jerking his head to the door to indicate he’s got this. Even can leave.

And he starts to, but in this minute, as the glass door pushes open at Even’s touch, Isak, in one fell swoop, spills the honey, drops the gallon of milk he’s getting ready to pour into the steamer, and spills hot tea all over the floor.

Isak’s sigh his audible. With frustrated undertones. He can feel the stinging in the back of his throat that he knows are the beginning of tears after a dragging, defeating day. And they’re not the result of the rude customer earlier. Of the kid who threw up in the bathroom earlier or putting up with Magnus’s ramblings. Of the spill just now.

They’re a culmination of all of that, sure—another annoying, discouraging road block—but the pinnacle is Even. Leaving. This mess probably a symbol of all the things Isak wants to say but doesn’t because _what? What does he even say?_

“Make a new one,” Even smiles, bringing Isak back to life behind the counter while he crouches down to the floor with a rag to start cleaning up the mess.

Isak just blinks—a little long, before looking down at him.

“Make a new one,” Even repeats, and Isak has no idea how he’s smiling through this right now, or why he looks so calm, like everything is going to be okay. “I got this.” Even gestures to the spill again. Nods to the customer.

Right. The customer. Isak, carefully this time, gets some more milk, the spare bottle of honey, and another tea. It takes only but a minute to make with a million apologies to the lady. Even hasn’t even made a dent in the mess—milk still sopping over paper towels, mixing with the honey in sweet spirals Isak knows will be a bitch and a half to get out between the grout on the tiles.

“You’re going to be late for your date,” Isak presses, reminding himself more than he is Even. It comes out much more of a hiss than he wants it to. He bends down beside Even to help him mop up the mess.

“Yeah,” Even agrees. It sounds neither nervous nor wary. Isak makes note that Even doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. For whatever reason, it makes his heart beat faster.

Or maybe it’s the proximity—faces down but close as they concentrate on cleaning. Isak can smell his shampoo from here. See a freckle or two on Even’s neck he’s never noticed before from a distance as he glances up under his lashes.

“What are you doing?” Isak asks, neck craning as he follows Even’s body suddenly move upward.

“Turning on the espresso maker,” Even states. As if that’s normal. He grabs a few more paper towels and bends back down.

Isak waits for him to explain, but it’s just so like Even that he doesn’t. That he makes Isak ask _why._

Which is exactly the reaction Even’s expecting, apparently, because when Isak does ask, his mouth turns up—more fondly than smugly. “I’m going to make us some coffee,” Even answers, like it’s obvious.

Isak doesn’t pester him to explain any further, confusion swirling like an afterthought lingering in the back of his mind as it tries to wrap itself around the _why._ And that _why_ extends far beyond the coffee. It includes _why does my heart feel this way? Why am I smiling? Why don’t I want to be? Why aren’t I angry right now? Why, why, why don’t I want him to leave right now? Why would that make me feel so much better?_

“This honey is a bitch,” Even half-laughs, scrunching his nose up for a moment as he works on a rather sticky spot on the floor. It’s low and a little hoarse but it does something downright illegal to Isak’s insides to hear him this way. Oh so nonchalant yet still full of charm that seems to ooze out of him effortlessly. To hear him so quiet like this, like it’s only for Isak. And it is, because no one else is here. And it’s the first time, really, that Even’s said anything only for Isak. 

So yeah. This honey is a bitch. It might as well be their wedding vows.

The timer goes off, indicating the espresso machine is done warming up. Even stands then, grabbing two porcelain cups from the cabinet. 

“Do you need this?” Isak asks, picking up the half emptied honey bottle from the spill. 

“Fuck that,” Even waves. “I’m making us mint mochas.”

Isak smiles to himself. Something about dismissing the honey—which always reminds him of Mikael—makes him feel rather light. Like maybe this day won’t end like shit. He finishes cleaning the best he can, lazily dragging the already dirty mop from closing earlier over the spill spot and calling it good enough. 

Even, now clad with a steaming cup in each hand, jerks his head over towards the counter where they hop up and sit side by side next to the register. 

It’s quiet for a long time. Just the sound of the ticking clock above the backroom door in front of them and the careful sips of coffee.

“Why are you still here?” Isak finally breaks the silence, staring straight down into the swirling traces of mocha left at the bottom of his mug.

Even takes another sip. “I don’t know,” he finally admits, and it sounds honest, like he’s been thinking the same thing. 

Isak feels him turn. Feels his eyes on him—feels the pull they radiate to meet them. So Isak does. He lifts his head to meet Even’s gaze and sees nothing but soft blue where once was blinding arrogance—or was it? Isak’s afraid now that his dislike has been built on lies. He realizes it probably has.

“I think I’m just nervous,” Even admits, looking away. 

“You shouldn’t be,” Isak all but whispers. “Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“I shouldn’t be?” Even challenges. “I don’t know about that. Shouldn’t I be excited?”

“Aren’t you?” Isak turns to him, setting his finished, empty mug beside him on the counter. “Can’t you be nervous and excited at the same time? I saw you looking at the clock every second.”

“I guess,” Even agrees, although hesitantly. “But I don’t know if I am excited.” There’s a pause. “I feel like if I go, something will… change. It makes me nervous.”

Nodding, Isak sniffs his nose as a nervous reflex—not quite sure what to say. He didn’t expect Even to feel like this.

“I feel a lot less nervous right here,” Even whispers. 

“What?” Isak jokes with a small smile, maybe as a defense mechanism. “I don’t make you nervous?”

“No,” Even chuckles, shaking his head. “With you I feel like I can be myself.”

It’s beyond a complement to Isak. He doesn’t quite know yet what to do with the warm feeling that’s spreading through his chest. 

Even takes the last sip of his coffee. Follows Isak’s lead and sets his empty mug on the counter beside them. When he looks back up to Isak, almost asking a question with just his stare alone, he’s got a little foam stuck to his top lip. It’s cute. 

These seesawing feelings are strange to Isak—the range of emotions he’s felt in just the last week alone a quick slide right into a crush. 

“You’ve got a little,” Isak starts, reaching his hand out—almost mechanically, before he realizes what he’s doing. But when Even doesn’t flinch, he continues—resting his palm on Even’s check and sliding his thumb over his top lip to brush the coffee remnants away. It’s slightly chapped. That fact doesn’t stop the almost uncontrollable urge Isak has to kiss him right now—his soft skin and soft eyes and warm demeanor practically melting and preening into Isak’s hand. He could be misinterpreting it, but if Isak could read Even’s mind, he’s convinced it would say _do it. I want you to._

Isak can feel time freeze. Can feel two thoughts pulling in opposite directions—like tug of war in his brain. One back into the past. Safe. One leaping headfirst into the future. It could ruin everything. But it could all be worth it. 

Tensing, but not hesitating, Even doesn’t pull away. Isak wonders how much longer he will wait—how much longer he’ll let Isak wage war on his own mind with his hand on Even’s cheek and his thumb still paused on his lip, now tracing the pattern of the top curve.

There’s not much to be ruined, really, Isak thinks.

Even must think the same, because in another very important minute, he makes all the moves Isak’s been thinking of. He leans in, giving permission, waiting. 

So Isak kisses him. This boy he’s been mixed up over lately, and all of that churning settles. His brain and his stomach and his nerves. They flatline at first, a scary kind of settling. Like he might die. But it soon relaxes into something peaceful, like all the moving parts of Isak have found their place for a moment. 

He feels Even smile when their lips connect, and yeah, Isak understands. Because he feels like he can be himself around Even, too. They just have to let their guard down. And it’s impossible not to smile back, lips thinning and cheeks tightening as their lips slide against each other. It’s long, but it doesn’t get heavy. It’s open, but there’s no rush. They sit close, thigh touching thigh and heads turned towards each other with Isak’s hand still on Even’s cheek as they kiss. For longer than a very important minute.

When they break away, looking at each other like whatever just happened was destined to, Isak smiles and remembers Even laughing at Mikael, who thought they were together. 

So maybe not in a million years. But maybe a million years isn’t very long to them. Maybe they’ve been around awhile—two souls who always find each other in some way shape or form. From the Cambrian explosion, when life crawled onto land and to the here and now—two humans in a coffee shop. They’ve been single cells and the first vertebrates and oceanic creatures. Oak trees and blades of grass and Venus fly traps. In all universes. Millions of years ago. 

Sometimes it just takes them a very important minute to find each other. 

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [tumblr!](https://bisexualcaravaggio.tumblr.com/)


End file.
